Fools
by ooliblikas
Summary: We were seven the first time you talked to me. Your face had appeared over the paint-peeled white-picket fence that separated our yards, toothy smile plastered on your face despite your missing two front teeth. Your eyes reminded me of the granny-smith apples my mother used to bake apple-pies, and back then, your hair was still the color of dirt. [ONE-SHOT]


_I see swimming pools and living rooms and airplanes  
I see a little house on the hill and children's names  
I see quiet nights poured over ice and Tanqueray  
But everything is shattering and it's my mistake_

 **Fools** – **Troye Sivan**

 **I.**

"Do you wanna play with me?"

We were seven the first time you talked to me. Your face had appeared over the paint-peeled white-picket fence that separated our yards, toothy smile plastered on your face despite you missing two front teeth. Your eyes reminded me of the granny-smith apples my mother would use to bake apple-pies, and back then, your hair was still the color of dirt.

"Sure." I said, uncertainty lacing my voice because I was intimidated by your confidence even back then. Making friends was never easy for me, but it was second nature to you. You were the center of the universe and I could never quite keep up.

We spent the afternoon playing in the creek behind your house. We skipped rocks and you taught me how to catch salamanders without using a net. By dinner time, my clothes were soaked with creek-water and my skin was heated with the beginnings of a sun-burn.

From there, we were inseparable. We spent summer-nights riding bikes in the cul-de-sac of our neighborhood and days were spent playing in the creek or in the woods behind my house. We battled each other with toy-swords and played baseball at the field next to our elementary school.

And even our families became blended in a mix of back-yard barbeques, trips to the beach, and get-togethers with no other purpose than to shoot-the-shit. At the end of summer, you asked if this meant we were best-friends. And it did.

 **II.**

And when I was twelve, we spent the Fourth of July with our families at a camp-site. We played tag with kids we'd never met before and climbed trees even though we knew it would make our mothers angry. We were always skinned knees and gapped teeth. Our echoing laughter filled the dead-air and by the time the sun started to set we were coated in the sticky perspiration of the summer's air.

The night was filled with the distinct smell of burning wood and the crackling of fire-wood still sends shivers of nostalgia down my spine. Your father told us that we could go down to the lake to watch the fire-works and, so, wrapped in paper-thin blankets we sat on the dock with baited breath.

And you watched the fireworks while I watched you. I admit, it wasn't the first time, but I could never trace back the moment when I first started trying to decipher the vast complexities of your existence. I memorized the freckles on your face as if they were unmapped constellations and every time you said my name, butterflies were birthed from the chrysalises in the pit of my stomach.

And it was funny because I had never once considered my blossoming sexuality or the moment I blurred the lines between friendship and first-love. So when you looked at me, brows knitted together in genuine confusion over my incessant staring, I leaned in. We kissed. It was chaste, but I swore it was marked with the alignment of the solar-system.

And you kissed me back, but with your fist. I sometimes wonder if either of us had truly been expecting it. You called me a 'faggot', repeating the phrases you'd learn from your older brother. At the time, I didn't know what it meant, but I knew it wasn't something I wanted to be called. When my nose blossomed with rose petals, you took off running. I could never explain to my parents why my best-friend had punched me, nor why we stopped being friends.

 **III.**

By high school, we'd created a canyon between us. You towered me in height and exchanged your dirt-brown hair for the color of poinsettias. You'd pierced your eye-brow, and then your septum, bull-ring a testament to the hot-headed temperament you'd developed over the years. Your sense of self was marked with metal-spikes and leather-jackets. You were loud and boisterous, but still forever the center of the universe.

In contrast, I was black skinny-jeans and argyle-sweaters. I had bleached my hair a more vibrant blonde in hopes of over-shadowing the sun while maintaining the face of a cherub, forever annoyed at my inability to get past adjectives like ' _cute_ '. I had come out during freshmen year, assimilating into the uncomfortable role as 'gay-best friend' to a group of catty-girls whose boyfriends seemed to be waiting for the moment they could bloody my face for existing.

Anytime we passed each other in the hall, I drew my gaze downward to avoid the inevitable hammering in my chest that told me I had never quite recovered from the heart-break or the loss of my best-friend.

And it remained that way until our junior year when your mother invited my family over for dinner. The family relations had been strained, fading with the embers of a child-hood friendship that had soured. I had tried feigning sick, excuses flooding from my mouth in hopes that I could be spared the humiliation. It didn't work, of course.

We spent the dinner in uncomfortable silence, dodging questions about our college aspirations and anything that might have led to us actually having to communicate. At some point, I had excused myself for fresh-air and stepped out onto your back-porch to inhale the winter-breeze.

My intention had been to spend only a moment out there, but there's something to be said about the draw of nostalgia because I found myself walking the path that lead to the creek in your back-yard. It was smaller than I remembered, water frozen and the ground hardened with frost. And it was strange, the way my mind replayed all of the summers spent playing in the water. It was then that I bent-down to pick up a smooth, flat rock that would've been perfect for skipping if it hadn't been for the frozen water. I remember discarding my gloves to smooth over the rock, so concentrated on conjuring our childhood that I hadn't heard your heavy-foot steps until you were beside me.

"What are you doing?" Your voice poured over your words like honey, but you were curt. Annoyed, even. I always assumed your mother, or mine, had sent you out there to retrieve me.

"Do you ever miss it?" I had asked, my voice quivering around my words. I didn't dare look at you, keeping my gaze on the rock in my hand, "I miss it." I breathed, watching my heated-breath come out in a white-puff of air, "Being friends, I mean. Our childhood. _Everything_."

You didn't answer me, walking along the edge of the creek as if you were looking for something. And sometimes, I wonder if it was an escape route. And then, with what little strength I had left, I looked at you, "I'm sorry, Axel." My eyes burned with tears, body shivering from unshed tears more than the bitter winter-air, "Not for kissing you, though. I meant that, but for ruining our friendship. I didn't—"Everything that had been building up over the years, the anger and the sadness, evaporated with the tears that had begun slipping down my cheeks.

You were looking at me then, chartreuse eyes studying me with measured calculation. Your jaw was tightening and untightening, "Roxas, I—" You started, taking painfully hesitant steps toward me, "—I'm not—"

"I know." I finished for you, closing my eyes tightly, " _I know."_ I stepped toward you then, handing the rock off to you. It felt like closure, the end of an era. You accepted it with uncertainty, unusually warm hands grazing my cold fingers, "I have always been in love with you Axel, but this—" I had smiled at you, fractured composure returning, "—this is goodbye."

And high-school came to a close in a whirl-wind, graduation coming quicker than any of us had anticipated only to be replaced with the promise of college. When the last summer of my adolescent years ended, I packed my bags for New York, determined to start anew.

 **IV.**

During my senior year of being an undergraduate, I came home to spend Christmas with my family. I spent the first few days with my younger brother, catching up on the years that I'd missed in my determination to escape my own demons. Christmas Eve was spent with extended family, rehashing stories that had been long forgotten and eating a gratuitous amount of food. To entertain the kids, we played games like Gestures and helped them unwrap gifts.

And at some point, your parents stopped by with you in tow. And while I doubted the possibility, you seemed taller. Your hair was still the color of poinsettias, but now you sported an undercut. Your skin was sun-kissed, presumably from attending university in California. Your parents embraced me, expressing their excitement at seeing me after so many years.

And when the greetings were done, our parents receding to the living room, we lingered in the foyer, "Can we talk?" You spoke, voice deeper than I remembered. The question was unexpected, causing me to furrow my brows together in discomfort.

Still, I smiled, "Uh, sure. Outside?" I offered, side-stepping around you to walk outside and onto the porch. The night-air was bitter, biting at my skin until it numbed. Snow was falling heavily, unrelentingly coating everything in layers of white.

"I have something for you." Your voice was hesitant as you pulled out a small box from the confines of your jacket-pocket. It was a gift-box, vibrant red-ribbon matching your hair-color.

"Axel—" I started, fearful of heading down a painfully familiar route. I wanted to reject your efforts, to curse you to the furthest depths of hell for toying with my emotions in such a blatantly obvious way. However, when I looked at you, I could see the way your top teeth scraped away at the skin of you bottom lip. You were nervous, shivering and uncertain. So I accepted the gift with unsteady hands.

As I untied the ribbon and removed the lid, my brows furrowed together in confusion. All that was inside was a flat, smooth rock. Then, my cognitive wheels began spinning, "You kept this all these years?" I questioned slowly, trying to piece together what I was looking at.

"Roxas, I—" You started, hand-raised with the animated fashion you were notorious for speaking in. Your lips were parted, words suspended in the space between us as your green-eyes flicked up at me, "—I was a coward. _I still am a coward_. Years ago you asked me if I missed it and I do. I miss _you_ , Rox. I fucking see _you_ in _everything_ I do." And your voice cracked, shattering around your words, "You kissed me and I was terrified. I was terrified because I wanted you to kiss me again. A thousand times over, but guys aren't supposed to do that." Your voice raised in pitch, self-hatred oozing as you spoke.

And if I were honest, I wanted to scream at you. To unleash the fury that had been building behind my cooling exterior. To let you know how badly I'd been hurting all of these years, but I didn't. I dropped the box, letting it clatter against the wooden porch. My hands found the collar of your leather jacket where I pulled you down, rising to the balls of my beet so that I could kiss you.

And you kissed me back, heated and calloused fingers rubbing against my cheeks. And I saw fire-works behind my eye-lids, fists balling in the material of your jacket. And when the kiss was broken, you pressed your forehead against mine, breathing uneasy.

"I'm in love with you too, Roxas." You smiled, pad of your thumb outlining my bottom lip, "I have always been in love with you."


End file.
